


even diamonds sink to dust

by anetherealmelody



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Slash, Trust, War, adding more tags as I update, canon compliant until the end, documenting wil's descent into insanity, eventual villain!wilbur, from tommy's pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anetherealmelody/pseuds/anetherealmelody
Summary: Wilbur lights fire to Tommy's heart with a single word:Freedom.Little does Tommy know, true freedom is won in the mind, not on the battlefield—and it's slipping out of Wilbur's grasp.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 23
Kudos: 88





	1. diamond

**Author's Note:**

> Wil and Tommy's friendship arc in the lore is so nuanced, and I really wanted to explore it. So here I am, procrastinating important irl things in favor of...whatever this turns out to be.
> 
> This story will span from the forming of L'Manberg to just after the festival, and will be canon compliant until around the festival. It takes place in the actual world of Minecraft. Also, I'll update the tags as they factor into the story. Thank you for reading! I really hope you like it!!

Wilbur hauls his pickaxe off of the stone. A vein of coal peeks out from where he had slammed it down.

Wilbur turns and smiles at him. 

It’s kind and warm and happy and _excited_ —open and hopeful and promising.

_Revolution_.

Tommy likes the taste of the word on his tongue. He likes the way it rings in his ears. He likes the thought that accompanies it: _freedom_. 

“I’m telling you, Tommy. There is _nothing_ stopping us. There is _no one_ stopping us. We’re exactly like this coal right here.” He bends down and swipes his finger against the vein. It comes back swathed in dust. “All we need is a _chance._ ”

Giddiness dances in the back of Tommy’s mind, but he frowns on principle. “Your analogies never make sense.”

“ _Diamonds_ , Tommy,” Wilbur says. His smile shifts into a grin. His eyes light up—eager, desperate. “Coal turns into diamond. We’re the coal now. They control us. But when we’re diamond—when we’re _diamonds_ , Tommy—they cannot. They cannot control us when _we’re_ in control.”

Coal to diamond. Bondage to freedom.

_Freedom_.

Tommy grins. 

“I’m listening,” he says. 

What he means is: _I’m in_.

///

They build for days. 

He has blisters on his hands and splinters in his heels. There are cuts on his fingers and calluses on his toes. He moves a muscle; it screams. 

It doesn’t matter. 

The sun rises and falls. He shovels sand and gravel into wheelbarrows. Tubbo collects flowers and ink sacs. Wilbur combines them into cement, and begins to place it around their home.

_Home_.

It becomes the natural order of things.

Eret joins them when the wall is halfway built. Tommy is asleep when the negotiations go down, but when he wakes, it’s to Tubbo and Eret’s laughter just outside. He stands and frowns and moves his hand to his hip—Wilbur’s taught him to sleep with a knife in his waistband, just in case—but Wilbur places a hand on his shoulder and smiles and tells him that it’s okay, that Eret is here to help, that Eret is on their side.

“Oh, thank Ender,” Tommy mutters, whirling around on sore legs and heading back to bed. “Give him all my jobs for the next while, yeah? I’ll wake up in a few weeks.”

Fate is not so kind. For the second time in as many hours, he’s woken against his will. This time it isn’t to peals of laughter, but to shouts of _“Fire!”_ and _“Get water!”_

He jerks upright. His head pounds and his sight fails and his mind screams and he wobbles on his feet, but he makes it to their chest, and hauls a bucket out by its handle. 

“Wilbur?” he calls, and clears his throat to rid of the lingering sleep. He steps outside and blinks in the new light.

The new light that _isn’t_ sunlight, because it’s night. 

The new light that isn’t starlight or moonlight.

The new light that is _fire_.

Fire. Just outside their walls. All around their walls.

_Everywhere._

His eyes shoot open. 

In his haste, he drops the bucket. He scrambles to pick it up—he must find Wilbur. He spins and spins and doesn’t see anyone.

“Wil!” he shouts, stumbling toward the nearest edge of the wall. Ash and smoke and dust rise and slip through his nose, into his lungs. He coughs. “Wilbur, where are you?”

If there is a response, he does not hear it. The flames are too dominant; the blood rushing in his ears too loud. 

Smoke is invading his mind, stealing his senses, and all he can think is _Wilbur where’s Wilbur where’s Tubbo Eret Tubbo Wilbur where’s Tubbo wher—_

He needs to get away from the smoke. 

His eyes sting, but he peels them open enough to make out crevices where he can set his hands. This part of the wall has not been finished; he scales it as quickly as he can and makes it over before he has to release his breath. 

His lungs burn, but he knows they will only burn more if he inhales. He trips as he runs toward the nearest pool of water—which, luckily, is just out of the smoke’s range.

Ashes float on top of the water. They look like snowflakes. They are beautiful. 

He cannot see his reflection. 

He cups his hands and splashes water over his face. He shoves the bucket under the surface and lugs it back up. His hands are still cut raw from holding the shovel for twelve hours a day, but he cannot feel anything except fear and confusion and fear and—

“Tommy!” 

He jumps so violently that he drops the bucket on his foot. 

“Tommy! Where are you?”

He turns around, facing the outer side of the wall. “Wilbur?”

“Tommy? Tommy, where are you?”

“Wilbur!” Tommy shouts. His bucket has spilled—he leans down to fill it again. “Wilbur! I’m over here! I have water!”

Only croupy coughs answer him. He flinches with each one, but turns, hauls the bucket up, and shuffles toward the nearest set of flames. 

He dumps the bucket on the nearest lit trunk. He turns and sprints away.

“Don't— _Tommy!”_

When he’s a good distance away, he looks back at the tree. 

The fire has only spread. 

“Wilbur?” he calls, eyes widening, heart sinking as he _really_ takes it all in. Fire is _everywhere_. They will _never_ be able to extinguish it. “We might need bigger buckets.”

“Listen to me, Tommy!” Wilbur shouts, only to hack another cough. When he’s recovered, he continues: “This isn’t natural. This is _intentional_.”

Tommy drops the bucket again. 

_Intentional_.

Fire, on every tree. On every leaf and branch and trunk, but not on any grass. Not on any logs. Just on the trees that stand tall, that shield their land from sun, from unwanted eyes. 

_Intentional_.

“They’re coming,” Wilbur yells. “They’re all coming, and you have to get inside. You aren’t safe out of the walls.”

Tommy locks his eyes on the lowest section of the wall, and sprints. 

His breaths are shallow and his lungs might as well be a tree—burning, useless, fading fast— but it doesn’t matter. He _must_ know: “Tubbo and Eret?”

“Fine,” Wilbur returns, coughing again. “Safe.”

“Get away from the smoke!” Tommy shouts, already climbing the wall. “You’re coughing too much!”

“I’m not leaving without you, Tommy. Just get inside the walls. They’re on their way.”

_They’re on their way._

Tommy reaches the top of the wall, and glances back at the damage done. 

There is little left now. There will be nothing left later.

He slides inside the walls.

His face sets. Fury bleeds into his voice.

_They’re on their way_.

“I’m in,” he says.

What he means is: _I’m ready._

///

“This is stupid,” he says.

Tubbo sets a pitcher down. “I think it’s great.”

“Me too, Tubbo,” Eret says.

“I cannot think of anything stupider,” he says.

“Is stupider a word?” Tubbo wonders. 

Tommy glares at him.

“What?” Tubbo asks, blinking. 

“Yes, it’s a word, you stupid—”

“ _Tommy_ ,” Wilbur scolds from the other room. “No swearing at the dinner table.”

“Okay, _mum_ ,” Tommy says, swiveling his glare to the wall. “You’re a hypocrite, you know.”

“He is not,” Eret says, placing serving spoons into the stew. 

“He swore like two minutes ago,” Tommy deadpans. “When he dropped the pie.”

“I did not,” Wilbur calls. 

“Wow,” Tommy deadpan. “Amazing defense. I must be wrong. I’ve been convinced.”

“Is stupider actually a word?” Tubbo repeats. 

Tommy presses his hands against his face and sulks into his chair. “Oh, for the love of—can't we just eat already?” he asks, voice muffled.

“It’ll last all of thirty minutes total, Tommy,” Eret says. "I think you'll survive."

“You would say that,” Tommy says. “You came up with this stupid dinner.”

“After what’s happened the past few days,” Wilbur says, walking in with half of a burnt pie, “I think it’s a fine idea. We’ve got a lot to discuss, anyway.”

“Like how the hell we’re going to get it to start raining?” Tommy mutters.

“I thought the fires were almost out,” Tubbo says. 

“You’re stupid,” Tommy says. 

“You’re stupider,” Tubbo retorts on autopilot.

Tommy looks at him pointedly. 

Tubbo’s mouth drops open. 

Wilbur sits down. “No, Tommy. Like how we’re going to get Dream to listen to us."

“Since that worked so well last time."

Eret turns to Wilbur. “Why is he such a pessimist?”

“He’s hungry,” Wilbur says. “It’ll pass. Just ignore him for a bit. He’ll get desperate for attention first, of course, but then he’ll get tired. When he’s tired, he’s manageable.”

“I hate you,” Tommy says. 

“I can’t believe it’s a word,” Tubbo says. 

Tommy groans.

“I think all the food is here,” Wilbur says. “Is everyone good to start?”

“I’m ready,” he says.

What he means is: _I’m waiting._

_///_

It rains.

It rains so hard that they can’t go outside. Their house is small and impermanent—it’s hardly even a house—but they all smush inside, huddle near the dying flames, and glare at the dwindling pile of firewood like it will replenish from raw fear of their anger.

Tommy and Tubbo sit on the floor, wrapped in the only sheet they’d managed to bring with them from Dream SMP. They should’ve been wiser, but everything happened so fast—they didn’t think about it twice. They _do_ have the two discs, at least. Tommy switches back and forth between them in an endless loop.

Wilbur does not scold him for playing the same music over and over for hours straight. He only sits beside them, legs crossed, closer to the fire since he cannot have the sheet. Eret sits in a chair across from them. 

They’re shivering and their lips are blue and their hands are numb—Tubbo is especially cold; after a couple hours, Tommy shifts them closer to the fire—but it’s okay. 

It _rains_. 

They don’t know how they’re so lucky. 

Some higher power must be on their side, must be looking out for them, because it rains and pours and rains some more, and fires die, and no one comes. 

When it finally stops, Wilbur addresses their immediate concerns. “I’ll get food,” he says. “Eret, get wood. Come start the fire. When you’ve done that, find coal. The torches are drenched and the furnaces depleted.”

“What about us?” Tommy asks, shaking the sheet off, standing. Without thinking about it, he turns, sticks out his hand, and hauls Tubbo up. “We can split and help you both.”

“No,” Wilbur says, running his fingers over the blade of his sword before tucking it into its sheathe. “No. You two stick together.”

“Can’t we do anything?” Tubbo asks.

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Tubbo.”

Tubbo flushes. “I was asleep, not dead.”

“You were _unconscious_ ,” Wilbur says. 

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Tubbo asks. 

“He was cold,” Tommy says. 

“ _Out_ cold, more like it,” Wilbur says.

Tommy snorts, but glances at Tubbo. He’s shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His lips are twisted; he stares at the ground. 

“Give him a break, Wil,” Tommy says, sensing his embarrassment. “We’ll go asses the damage.”

Wilbur purses his lips, considering, but acquiesces with a curt nod. “Go on, then. Do _not_ leave the walls. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“And don’t be stupid, Tubbo. If you’re feeling wretched, there’s no need to—”

“I know, I know,” Tubbo says, brightening at the allowance. “I’ll be careful.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur warns. “Watch him.”

“I always do, Wil,” Tommy says. “He can’t be trusted.”

“I’m _literally_ older than you,” Tubbo says.

Tommy blinks. “Objection. Irrelevant.”

“If anything, I should be watching you.”

“Age doesn’t matter,” Tommy says. “I’m taller and smarter and stronger and _my_ body doesn’t shut down during a rainstorm, which automatically makes me superior, and—”

Tubbo shoves him. “Shut _up,_ ” he protests, laughing. 

Wil leaves smiling. Tommy and Tubbo leave fighting. 

The banter drops, though, as soon as they step foot outside. 

A sheen of leftover smoke drifts lightly in the air, twisting with the clouds to turn the entire atmosphere gray. Sun beats down unobstructed on their heads. There are no trees in sight.

“Oh, wow,” Tubbo murmurs. 

Tommy’s eyes harden. “They did this,” he mutters.

“Dream and George and Sapnap?”

“Who else?”

Tubbo spins in a slow circle, eyes flitting from burn to burn to burn. “Man.”

Tommy walks toward the nearest section of the wall. “Come on, then,” he says. 

They spend half an hour searching for damage to the wall. There is little except ash, which is relief enough for them to relax. The outside is still hideous, of course, but levity comes trickles back into their conversation without any vehement resistance. 

They come to a particularly smooth section of the wall, and Tommy grins at Tubbo. “How fast do you think I’ll make it up?”

Tubbo’s eyes light up. “Let’s race,” he says. 

Tommy furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t know if you…are you sure you feel good enough?”

“Yep. I’m fine.”

“If you get hurt or pass out or die, Wilbur will kill me.”

“That’s okay,” Tubbo says. “We’ll be together in heaven. Or hell. Probably hell.”

Tommy smirks. “I’m your guardian,” he says, raising his hand above Tubbo’s shoulders to knight him, “and I deem you healthy enough to participate.”

“I’m older than you,” Tubbo reminds him.

“I don’t care,” Tommy reminds him back. He turns to face the wall and gestures for Tubbo to join him. “First one up wins?”

Tubbo nods. “Three, two—”

“ _One!”_

They scramble upwards, finding crags to place their fingers and slits to place their feet. It isn’t an even race by a long stretch—Tommy beats him easily. They perch beside each other, heaving breaths, grinning at the exertion after so long stuck inside. 

“Not bad,” Tommy says. “Given that, you know. You can barely even walk.”

“I can walk. Don’t act so high and mighty. I’m a better climber than you, usually. It’s just because I—”

“—can’t walk?”

Tubbo rolls his eyes. “Yes, Tommy. I can’t walk. Happy now?”

“Very. I’m glad you didn’t die.”

“What a compliment.”

“Don’t be bitter, Tubbo. You lost fairly.”

“That doesn't even make sense. I’m not being—”

Tommy shoots straight up, cutting Tubbo off. “What is _that?”_

Tubbo rises to his feet, too—albeit far more carefully. Tommy moves as close to the edge as he can before Tubbo snaps, “Tommy.”

“I’m just looking, Tubbo. Relax.”

“What is there to— _oh_.”

Tommy turns to face him. “I’m going to get them,” he says. 

“ _No_ , Tommy. Don’t be stupid. Wilbur specifically said—”

“Never mind what he said, Tubbo. I—”

“What do you _mean_ never mind what he said?” Tubbo asks, laughing a little incredulously. “He told us to stay inside!”

“Okay, but they're sitting there unguarded. _Unguarded,_ Tubbo. I’ll be in and out, just like that. You won’t even notice.”

“Tommy, no. Don’t—”

Tommy spins and lowers himself down. He selects his footholds with extreme caution—the drop is much too far to risk.

“ _Tommy_ ,” Tubbo groans. 

“It’ll be worth it,” he says. “You’ll see.”

“Ender save me,” Tubbo mutters.

Tommy descends until he’s low enough to jump the rest of the way down. He goes to turn around but pauses when he sees—

“ _Tubbo!_ What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not just gonna stay by myself,” Tubbo responds, voice tight with focus. “And I’m not gonna leave you to whoever left those there.”

Tommy drags his hands down the lower half of his face, not once taking his eyes away from the wall. “It isn’t a trap,” he says. “You’re an idiot.”

“I don’t—” Tubbo jumps down, brushes his hands off on his trousers, takes a deep breath, and meets his eye. “I don’t care what you think. It’s obviously _something_. No one would leave _blaze rods_ sitting in the middle of the forest.”

Tommy scrunches his nose. “Bit insensitive,” he says. “It’s not exactly a forest anymore.”

“You know what I mean,” Tubbo says.

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, turning and walking toward the pile. It isn’t a far walk—twenty paces, at most—but the hill has enough of a slope to make him keep his focus on the ground. “Dream and them are rich, you know? They probably wouldn’t even notice these missing.”

“Or they knew we don’t have them, and they had extra to spare, so they left them out as bait.”

Tommy waves him off. “Nah,” he says.

“Why not? It makes total sense.”

“Does it?” he echoes absently.

“ _Yes_. It’s definitely a trap.”

“You’re probably wrong,” Tommy says. 

“Tommy! Are you even listening?”

“Not really, no.”

“You’re so annoying,” Tubbo sulks.

His arguments don’t make a difference. They reach the stack before further protests are raised.

Tubbo checks for traps; there are none.  Tommy gapes at the pile.

“Holy crap,” he says.

“This all seems clear,” Tubbo says. 

“I know. Come here and count these, would you? I’m going to check if there are any strays.”

“What? You’re going to—Tommy, _no_. I’m _serious_. There must be at least sixty here. That’s _plenty_. We don’t need—Tommy!”

“It’s _fine,_ Tubbo. I’m not weak, you know. Call when you’ve finished counting.”

He circles their immediate area, finds nothing, and heads a little further away. He walks until he cannot hear Tubbo muttering to himself, and not a step more. 

Then he sees another rod. 

It’s only a couple minute’s walk away, so, with a glance over his shoulder at Tubbo, he turns and starts for it.

He isn’t Tubbo, though, and he does not think to look for traps.  He sees the trip wire right as he falls into it

The drop isn’t far, but it isn’t particularly auspicious, either. He slams against the stone and curses—it bruises his knees and ribs; he’s lucky not to break anything.

A single blaze rod bounces in after him. 

He glares at it.

The roof closes to all but a slit. Sunlight still peeks in to highlight the sign on the wall: 

_Ha. Hostage._

Tommy scowls. He doesn’t think they quite grasp the concept of a hostage at all. Sapnap must have written it.

Once the various cuts stop bleeding, he braces himself and tries to climb out. The natural stone is smoother than their rugged walls, though—he cannot find enough holds. He tries and tries and tries, and shouts and shouts and shouts, but he does not succeed, and he is not heard. 

At one point, he makes out Tubbo’s frantic voice demanding to know where he is, what he’s done, what he’s doing. He yells a response and is met with only silence.

Strings of curses leave his mouth as he dresses his wounds in cobwebs. It’s a skill Technoblade taught him and Tubbo a long, _long_ time ago—after Tecnho stopped telling them bedtime stories, but before he picked up his things and vanished from their lives. Before Tommy woke up one day to find him gone; to find himself completely alone. Alone with Tubbo, of course—but alone. 

He remembers the way he and Tubbo had laughed it off. They were too young to understand, then. How could they? How can you break it to a child—to two helpless children—that a goodbye is permanent? That a farewell letter—which contained all of fourteen words—is the last time someone will speak to you?

You cannot. It is impossible. 

Somehow, Wilbur did. 

They were confused; Wilbur led them. They were starving; Wilbur fed them. They were alone; Wilbur found them.

He is alone, now.

He does not doubt for a second that Wilbur will find him again. 

The pain ebbs, the light fades, and he slumps against the wall. He dozes in and out.

And—as half of him expected—when he wakes, it’s to a furious shout.

“TommyInnit the second I find you, I swear to every Ender in the galaxy, I will _end your life myself._ You better answer me, you little—”

“Wil?” he calls groggily. He clears his throat and hauls to his feet. " Wil! I don’t think I deserve to be killed.” He holds up the single blaze rod. “I’ve got a gift for you. If you kill me, you’ll go to hell, and people in hell don’t get gifts. I’ve checked.”

Firelight flickers into the open slit. Wil activates the trap. Tommy cranes his head up. He smiles, abashed. 

Wilbur glares. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Nothing,” he says. He lifts the rod above his head; it’s still out of Wilbur’s reach. “Here. For you.”

“What did I _tell_ you? You stupid son of a—”

“Hey, now, Wil,” he says, choking a laugh. It comes out far more nervous than he’d desired. “There’s no need to get aggressive.”

“What do you mean there’s no—Tommy, I _explicitly_ told you to stay within the walls. I have every reason to be aggressive!”

“I know. But Wilbur, we can’t even _go_ to the nether! We don't have a portal. And none of us have any blaze rods! We—”

“I don’t care about your bloody blaze rods,” Wilbur snaps. “Tubbo’s already told me enough about them. He's got seventy-three! What did you get trapped in here for? One?

“You aren’t listening, Wil,” he insists, though his stance comes from a commitment to be right and not from a place of logic. His face is red with guilt. “We needed them, and there was a giant pile just sitting there. It’d be criminal not to at least try! You would have done the same!”

Wilbur drags his torch-less hand down his face. “Tommy. Do you know how _long_ we spent looking for you? Do you know how terrified Tubbo was? How terrified all of us were?”

Tommy winces.

He doesn’t apologize, but he swallows his instinct retort, drops the blaze rod back to his side, and lowers his gaze to the wall. 

_I’m sorry_. 

Three syllables that have never felt right on his tongue. Actions speak louder than words, but silence speaks loudest of all. He does not act; he does speak. 

Wilbur knows him well enough to understand.

He is not sorry, because he has never been sorry—he never _will_ be sorry, because he is always right—but he is the closest thing to it. 

He does not want Wilbur to be angry.

Technoblade disappeared.  He cannot fathom what he would do if Wilbur did, too.

“Alright,” Wil says, sighing. “I’m dropping down rope.”

“I’m waiting,” he says. 

What he means is: _I don’t want to be left alone._


	2. declaration

Dream comes. 

They knew he would. They did not know when.

Tubbo scrambles inside the house with wide eyes. “Wilbur,” he says, breathless. “You’ve gotta come outside.

Wilbur stands with his signature calm, entirely unruffled by anything, ever—except Tommy. 

“Go find Eret, Tubbo. He’s fishing. Have him come back here with you."

Tubbo nods eleven times too many to ever pass as casual, turns, and runs out the door.

Tommy stares as Wil ties his laces, slips into his coat, and pulls his cap over his head.

Tommy jumps up from the ground. “I’ll go with you,” he says. 

“No, Tommy.”  


“Yeah, I will. Let me just get my armor on. I’ll grab yours, too, and—”

“I’m not taking armor, Tommy. And I’m not taking you.”

“I’ll behave,” Tommy says. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

Wilbur raises a dry eyebrow. “Recent experiences prove otherwise.”

Tommy tugs on his boots. “And I _learned_ from them. I’m not gonna be stupid again. Come on. _Please?_ Just give me a chance to—”

“I gave you a chance, Tommy, and you climbed the wall!"

He cringes, ignores the valid statement, and presses, “I think I should be there, Wil. What if something happens? What if it’s a trap?”  


“You’re right,” Wilbur deadpans. “You’re so good at avoiding traps.”

“Wil, _please_ let me come. I’ll do good. I swear.”

“You _won’t_ , though. That’s the thing. Rational discourse isn’t your strong suit, Tommy.”

“I don’t even have to talk. I’ll just—you know. Be there. Moral support, and all that.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Wilbur tells him. 

Tommy pulls on his coat. “I know, Wil,” he says, feeding far more gravity in his voice than necessary. “Independence never is.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, but his lips quirk up before he can stop them. 

Tommy’s heart skips in excitement. 

“Give me one reason to take you.”

Tommy smiles, now—he moves to Wil’s side and grabs his cap from the hanger. “I’m your right hand man!”

“One _convincing_ reason,” Wil says, turning and gesturing him out the door. 

“I don’t want to be left alone,” he says.

What he means is: _I want to help._

///

Tommy creaks the door open. They’ve expanded their home in the few free hours they have each day. He and Tubbo share a room, of course, but Wil and Eret have their own.

It’s quaint. It’s nice. 

“Wil?” he whispers. “You still up?”

Wilbur sighs.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Tommy pads over as quietly as he can. Damp torch light lets him see his way, but Wilbur’s face is shroud in shadow. He cannot make his expression out.

“How’s it coming?” 

Wilbur drops his quill and runs a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he mutters. “Fine as can be expected, that is.”

“Want to read what you have so far?”

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

Tommy shifts, dropping his gaze to his feet. “I, uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Tubbo took up all the room. I fell off.”

“Uh huh,” Wilbur says dryly. “Likely story.

Tommy flushes, and tries _hard_ not to think about the guilt that kept him awake. “I’m serious. He’s so selfish, you know? Always taking up…taking up all the room.”

Wilbur drops his head into his hands. “Just go to bed, Tommy.”

“You might as well read it to me. I’m already here, and you look stuck.”

Wilbur rubs his hands up and down his face but, after a few moments, mutters, “Fine.”

He picks up the paper with a flourish, and draws nearer to the torch for light. Tommy sinks onto a chair across from him. 

“Forever, the nation of the Dream SMP have cast great sins upon our great land of the hto dog van. They have robbed us. Imprisoned us. Threatened us. Hurt many of our men. This time of tyranny ends with us.

“This book declares that the nation—which shall be henceforth known as L’Manberg—is separate, emancipated, and independent from the nation of the Dream SMP.

“We hold these truths to—”

“What truths?” Tommy cuts in.

Wilbur looks up, blinking. 

Tommy frowns. “You didn’t list any truths. You just said that we are independent.”

“Alright,” Wilbur says carefully. “How should I change it?”

“I just think there needs to be a transition,” he says. 

“Give me an idea of what to put, then.”

“Uh,” he says, squinting at the crumpled paper balls under Wilbur’s desk. “Well, a truth is—I mean you could say something like: The union of the masters of men. Or together—together we are one. Because unity is important to us. You know?”

Wilbur adds it. 

“—we are one,” he says, finishing the word. His head stays bent, though—he keeps writing. “When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one to dissolve the bonds which bind us. Disregarding of this truth is nothing short of tyranny.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. The right of the people exists above the rights of the king, the rights of the government, and the right of the economy.”

He purses his lips, holds the paper to the light, and brings it back down, muttering as he writes, “From the hto dog van, we shall prevail. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happin—”

“Victory,” Tommy says. 

Wilbur picks up his quill, pausing. “Victory.”

“Vict—no. _Freedom_.”

Wilbur glances up at him. “Freedom,” he repeats. 

"Freddom," Tommy says. 

Wilbur nods. He bends his head again to scribble out the word. 

_Freedom_. 

He reads through it again and again. Tommy cannot see the words when he holds it up—he sits in anxious silence. 

It comes abruptly. Wil sets the paper down and addresses him. 

“You were ridiculously stupid this morning,” he says bluntly. Tommy jumps; he’d been staring at the torch’s flames. “I told you exactly what to do, and you did exactly the opposite.”

“Well, in my defense—”

“There is no defense, Tommy. We didn’t need him an as enemy, but you—”

“He burned down all our trees! He was already an enemy!”

“You don’t understand,” Wil says, shaking his head. “He disapproved our decision, but he was not against it. He’s furious, now. He’s demanding _white flags_.”

“I hardly did anything,” he mutters, slumping. 

“You attacked him,” Wil says dryly. 

“With _words_.”

“That’s how we fight in L’Manberg. It was the wrong statement that, as I expected, rubbed him the wrong way.”

Tommy scowls. “What an idiot.”

“That’s not the…” Wilbur sighs and brings a hand to rub his forehead. “I’m really disappointed in you, Tommy.”

Tommy drops his gaze to his lap. He swallows. His eyebrows furrow.

Minutes pass in borrowed silence. It isn’t full, but it’s far from empty—guilt beats a shifty rhythm in his brain. Wilbur returns to scratching something in his bound book. What exactly, Tommy isn’t sure. 

At length, the flickers of the flame get too loud, the blood rushing past his ears too overwhelming. He straightens in his chair, braces himself, and clears his throat. 

Wilbur looks up. 

“Can I stay?” he asks.

Wilbur furrows his eyebrows. 

Tommy nods to the book.

“I want to help,” he says.

What he means is: _I’m sorry._

///

He’s not allowed in the next negotiations. 

He sits at breakfast and is not surprised. 

He _is_ disappointed, until he isn’t—Wilbur comes storming in seventeen minutes after he’d left, holding a familiar book in his left hand and an unfamiliar one in his right. 

He tosses the latter on the table. It slides until it smacks Tubbo in the chest. 

Tubbo picks it up with furrowed eyebrows and squints at the cover.  “Dec—decoration or—decoration of—”

“ _Declaration_ ,” Wilbur says darkly.

“Declaration of—”

“Oh, give it here,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes. He leans bodily across the table to snatch it out of his hands. Eret laughs. 

Humor quickly dies. Tommy pales. 

“Declaration of war,” he reads, voice hushed. He glances first to Tubbo—whose eyes are wide and fearful—then to Wilbur—who has turned to his back to them. 

“ _What?”_ Eret asks.

Tommy swallows. “Declaration of war,” he repeats hollowly. He flips the book open. Only one page is filled. “Dream SMP declares war on L’Manberg. Joint resolution. Signed Punz, Sapnap, and…and Dream.”

His eyes glaze over; he cannot see. The room’s silence is deafening. 

Wilbur bows his head. 

“When do they—” Tubbo reaches across the table to take the book back. “Is there a date in here?” 

Tommy hardly hears him. 

War. 

_Real_ war. No more fantasies or fires or friends.

War. Permanent, chaotic bloodshed. 

It slips through his mind once, and he feels guilty about it for the rest of his night—a single, ringing question: _is it worth it?_

Yes. 

He does not hesitate. 

Yes. _Yes_. Life, liberty, freedom—all the things they are pursuing—are _more_ than worth it. 

“They’ll come tomorrow,” Wilbur says, staring out the window, clasping his hands behind his back. His posture is ram-rod straight, as always; Tommy sits up taller. He doesn’t know what he wouldn’t do to further emulate his president.

His _president_. The president of this land—of this, _their_ land—of L’Manberg. 

_Their_ L’Manberg.

“How do you know when?” Eret asks, reading and rereading the page over Tubbo’s shoulder. “Did he mention it when you talked to him? There’s nothing about it in here.”

“No,” Wilbur says. “No. He didn’t, but I know.” He turns around to face them. He looks Tommy straight in the eye. “We start preparing now.”

Within moments, assignments are doled out. Wil is responsible for enchantments. Eret is responsible for forging weapons. He and Tubbo pick up the loose ends—mending the armor, ensuring the buckets are full of water, cooking and storing the food, brewing the potions—invisibility, on Wilbur’s insistence—and patching up the walls.

The sun peaks and plummets before anyone returns home. He and Tubbo are first, and push through the door sore and limping and weary. They set to organizing the food immediately. Attempts at conversation are idle and half-hearted, but it’s _him and Tubbo_ , so they manage a steady stream anyway. 

Just after moonlight’s rays glint off the wall, Eret and Wil arrive. They come together, and spread out fully enchanted weapons on the table. 

Tommy grins at Tubbo—who grins back; this is _insane_ —but represses it as soon as he feels Wil’s eyes on him.

They sort out who’s most proficient with which, and then Eret sweeps them all from the table. “Let’s eat together,” he says. “I really enjoyed it that one night.”

“So did I,” Tubbo says brightly. “It was surprisingly fun.”

“Oh, Ender. Please don’t make—”

“Sit down, Tommy,” Eret scolds. 

“—me sit through another one of this hellish things, I—”

“Sounds fine to me,” Wilbur says. Tommy glares at him— _traitor_. “As long as I don’t have to cook.”

“We’ve got food in here,” Tubbo says, and pops up from his chair. “I’ll grab it. Hang on.”

Tommy slams his forehead on the table. Over and over and over. “Don’t—make—me. Don’t—make—me. I’m—going—to—die.”

“Quit being dramatic,” Wilbur says, lowering to sit next to him. “It’s annoying.”

“I’m—not—being—dramatic—because—”

His forehead hits the wood as soon as a frantic knock slams at the door. 

He shoots up, eyes wide. Wil glances at him solemnly. 

“That wasn’t me,” Tommy whispers. 

“I know,” Wilbur says. Then, as quietly as he can, “Tubbo. Get back here.”

“What?” Tubbo calls. 

All three of them flinch.

Another knock. 

Eret rises slowly. “I’ll get Tubbo,” he murmurs. “You and Tommy get the door.” 

Wilbur looks at Tommy with a raised eyebrow— _will you behave?_

Tommy nods. 

Wilbur returns it, and stands. Eret slips into the kitchen. Tommy tosses a dagger to Wil; he keeps a sharp sword for himself. Their footsteps are silent.

When they reach the door, Tommy puts a hand against the knob. Wilbur mouths _wait_ , and Tommy understands—wait for his signal. He nods.

“Identify yourself,” Wil says to the door, voice hard. “You have thirty seconds before we assume you are an enemy and attack.”

More pounds against the door. This time, at least, there are also words: “No! No! I’m not armed! Let me in!”

Tommy’s mouth drops open.

Wilbur recovers from his surprise faster—he swings the door open. 

A man shoves right past them. 

Tommy spins, gaping.

“ _Fundy?”_

“ _Yes_ ,” Fundy growls, shucking his coat off and tossing it onto the floor. He whirls toward them. “You didn’t have to leave me out there for hours. Who else would it be?”

Tommy blinks. “A lot of people are looking to kill us right now,” he says. 

“Well, I’m _not_ ,” Fundy snaps. He sits down and begins unlacing his boots. “I’ve been on your side this entire time.”

“Have you?” Wilbur asks, and Tommy’s eyes dart up—there is suspicion in his voice. It’s mirrored in his face just as plainly: tart and tight and analyzing. Tommy steps to his side. “We’ve been gone for weeks, you know. Why show up now?”

Fundy glances up, eyebrows drawn. “I’ve been trying to get out,” he says. “Dream’s enforcing a travel ban.”  


“You couldn’t have slipped away during the night?”

“He’s got people on the borders around the clock,” Fundy says. “Surely you don’t think I—”

“I don’t know what to think,” Wilbur interrupts. 

“Oh, come on, Wil!” Fundy cries, jumping to his feet. Wil shifts his body to angle in front of Tommy, blocking Fundy from his view. He scowls and tries to push forward; Wil bars him with an outstretched arm. Fundy eyes it with distaste, and addresses Wil with more vehemence. “You almost _adopted_ me,” he says. “You can’t seriously believe that I would come here with an agenda!”

“I haven’t seen you in two months, Fundy,” Wilbur says quietly. “We have heavier burdens, now—things you haven’t had to think about. We are at _war_. They are bringing an army to fight us _tomorrow._ We haven’t seen you in months, and you show up the night before?” He shakes his head. “It’s questionable, Fundy. Surely you can understand that.” 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Fundy asserts, swiveling his head round to look at the hall leading to the kitchen. Eret stands there before Tubbo in the same way Wil still stands before Tommy. “I would never hurt any of you. How could you think I’d—I would _never!”_

“Don’t take it personal, Fundy,” Eret says. “We would have felt the same way about anyone who had showed up tonight.”

“But it’s me, Eret! It’s _me_ , Wilbur!”

“Yeah, exactly,” Tommy says, careful to keep his tone light, airy—the weight of the conversation has settled too heavy on his shoulders; he must cast it away. “We would never trust a furry.”

Wilbur scowls. Fundy glares, but sees the smile tugging at his mouth, and relaxes. 

From the doorway, Tubbo snorts. Eret shushes him. 

“I rather liked your being a fox,” Tubbo says. 

“Me too,” Tommy says, turning to face Tubbo. He grins. “Did you know, Tubbo, that when I was younger I wanted one for a pet?”

“Yeah, I did. Since, you know, I was _there_.” He scrunches his nose. “Who wants a fox as a pet, anyway? That’s so strange.”

“Well, I didn’t know back then,” Tommy says, and smirks at Fundy. “I’d never met one before.”

Tubbo grins. Eret chokes a laugh. 

Wilbur watches him through narrowed eyes, but it doesn’t matter. The tense silence has eased, and relief floods his lungs—he can breathe again.

Fundy sighs. “Listen,” he says. “You’re right, okay? I understand why this looks bad. I don’t know how I can prove myself to you, but I’ll do whatever it takes.” He straightens, looking Wil straight in the eye. “I’m here to stay, Wilbur. I’m here to fight.”

Wil stares. Fundy does not back off. 

“I don’t know how you can prove yourself, either,” Wilbur says. “You make it incredibly hard for us, actually. We’ve got to take shifts watching you now, and lose sleep.”

“I don’t need sleep,” Tommy says. “I’ll watch him all night.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Wilbur says.

“I need sleep,” Eret says. 

“Same, I think,” Tubbo says. “I’ve never tried not sleeping, I don’t think.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Yes you have,” he says dryly. “We did it together the night before Techno’s birthday.”

Tubbo frowns. “I don’t remem— _oh!_ When he thought we were asleep!” 

“Yeah. You slept for the next century.”

“I did _not_. I only—”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Wilbur mutters, rubbing his temple and walking straight for his bedroom door. “Put me out of my misery.”

He slams the door behind him. 

All of them stare at the door for a long minute.

“Well,” Tommy says, turning away from Wilbur’s door. “Guess I’m in charge.”

Eret raises his eyebrows. “Oh, perfect. You want to make dinner?”

Tommy opens his mouth, but snaps it shut, scowling. 

“I have it all ready,” Tubbo says, and raises a pot that he had apparently been holding the entire time. 

“I bet it’s disgusting,” Tommy says, sliding into his chair.

“Be nice, Tommy,” Eret says. “I’m in charge.”

“What?” Tommy demands. “Your logic makes _zero_ sense.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says, frowning. “Aren’t I in charge? I’m making dinner.”

Eret shrugs and takes a seat. “I actually don’t care at all, as long as it isn’t Tommy.”

“I can get behind that,” Tubbo says, and places the pot on the table. He tucks himself into the chair beside Tommy.

Bowls are slipped to four table places. Tommy immediately starts to eat. Tubbo looks at him in horror. 

“What?” Tommy demands, mouth full of stew.

“You’re being so _rude,_ ” he whispers.

Tommy looks up to find Eret sat and eating. He furrows his eyebrows, wondering what else he could possibly be missing, and—

“Fundy,” he says, gesturing to the open chair. “You’re making Tubbo wait.”

Fundy blinks. 

“Sit down, then,” Eret says. “I’m in charge here, after all.”

Fundy stares. 

“Well, this is awkward,” Tubbo says. He glances back to Tommy. “Maybe I should just be rude, too?”

Tommy takes another bite, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s pretty convenient, most of the time. You don’t have to lie to people because you can just tell them that you hate them. Exhibit A: I really don’t like this soup. It’s disgusting, actually.”

Tubbo’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Try it.”

Tubbo takes a bite. 

Tommy gasps, shoving his spoon in Tubbo’s direction. “Oh my—Eret, did you _see_ that? You’re in charge here, aren’t you? He’s being so _rude_.”

“You’re annoying,” Tubbo says, still gazing deeply into his bowl. “And wrong, to boot. This soup is good.”

It is, actually—it’s delicious. They eat and talk and talk and talk, and, at some point, Fundy realizes that they are serious. He slides neatly into his chair, and then into the conversation. None of them make a deal of it. 

What Tommy _wants_ to do is grin and hug him and yell a greeting so loud that it hurts Dream’s ears, all the way in Dream SMP. 

What he _must_ do is be wary, so he is. He acts normal, but bites his tongue on information that would usually flow freely.

They are long past being able to do what they want. War is coming—war is _here_ —and they cannot make anymore mistakes. 

They cannot, or they will have no mistakes left to make. They will have no chance to make them.

When dinner ends, Eret pulls him aside. 

“Can I ask a favor?” he whispers. 

“Sure, man. Of course. What’s up?”

Eret glances over his shoulder, and lowers his voice. “I need to borrow your pickaxe,” he says.

Tommy does not think twice about the furtive way Eret asks, or the subtle trembling to his hands. He does not think twice about the fact that _his_ pickaxe is the strongest of the ones they have—Eret must be mining something strong if he is asking to borrow it.

He does not think twice about saying yes.

Eret thanks him with a shaky smile and slips out into the night. 

Tommy does not think twice about it. 

Instead, he enters his room, unlocks his chest, and carefully removes his discs from inside. He tucks them into his coat pocket and returns to find Tubbo and Fundy talking about bees.

He rolls his eyes and points Fundy to Wilbur’s room. “I need Tubbo,” he says. “And Wilbur says you’ve gotta be watched. Go try to convince him or prove yourself or something. Before he rips up the adoption papers.”

Fundy flinches as he knocks. Wilbur doesn’t emerge. Tommy sighs, stands, and whips the door open himself. 

“I know you heard me,” he says into the pitch black room. “I know you’re awake, too. Why aren’t your torches lit?”

“Get out,” Wilbur groans. “Can’t a man have his sleep?”

Tommy grins. “I don’t know. I’m a man. The biggest of the men. Ask me.”

“I am currently glaring at you,” Wilbur deadpans. 

“I can’t see it, so it doesn’t count.” He swings the door open wider, gesturing over his shoulder. “Can you come out? Or Fundy in? I’m going out to the wall with Tubbo, and—”

A bed creaks loudly as Wilbur assumably sits up. “What?” 

“—you said not to leave him unwatched.”

“What are you doing with Tubbo?”

“Going out to the wall. I’m bringing the jukebox, and we’re—”

“ _Seriously?”_ Wilbur demands, and steps into the light. “You’re taking the discs?” 

“Yes,” Tommy says. “What of it?”

Wilbur scowls, pushing past him in the threshold of his doorway. He pours himself a bowl of soup at the table. “They’re our only leverage, Tommy. They’re the rarest, most expensive items in the _world_. You’re going to bring them to the border of our land—the border, which, as you might recall, has been thoroughly trapped—the night before a full-scale _war?”_

“Essentially,” Tommy says, nodding. 

“I won’t let him lose them, Wilbur,” Tubbo adds valiantly. 

Tommy scowls at him. “You’re right. You won’t _let_ me do anything.”

Wilbur sets down his soup to stare at them blankly.

“You’re both imbeciles,” he says. 

“I don’t know what that means, but thanks!”

“It’s not a good thing, Tubbo,” Tommy says.

“Oh. Well. Thanks for nothing.”

“Good save,” Tommy mutters. He sighs, wiping his hands down his face. “Look, Wil. It’s our last night. Can’t we just—you know. Go listen to music?”

It’s only the slightest change—Tommy hardly notices it—but he knows Wilbur far too well for it to pass unnoticed

Wilbur’s expression softens. The edge is stripped away; only love and fear remain. 

Tommy doesn’t know which scares him more.

“Compromise,” Wilbur says. “You sit on the roof. I’ll stay here and watch the furry.”

Tommy snorts. Tubbo snickers. 

“Deal?” 

“What? No. Sorry. I was laughing at _furry_.”

“Shut up, man,” Fundy groans. 

“You’re mentally four,” Wilbur says dryly. “I despise you, child.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, grabs Tubbo’s sleeve, and tugs him toward the front door. “I’m going to the walls. Your compromise is stupid. We’ll be back before midnight. 

“Tommy. Do _not_ go past The Camaravan. Stay where I can see you in case something happens. Actually—don’t go at all. Stay here. Go to bed.”

Tommy grins as he opens the door. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

What he means is: _I don’t want to_.


	3. dent

He _means_ to be back at midnight.

He and Tubbo sit and talk and think and listen for hours, but as soon as the moon leaves his immediate vision, he starts to track its path in the sky. He will not disappoint Wilbur again. Right before the moon peaks, they will start to head back. The walk is only twenty minutes. They will be back in time. 

He plans it all out—they will be back at midnight. 

Then Tubbo falls asleep on his shoulder. 

His arm wraps carefully around Tubbo’s back—if anyone were to plummet down L’Manberg’s walls because they fell asleep, it would certainly be Tubbo—and each of their exhales spin a cloud into the air. It is crisp and cold, but they are together. Affection is not something he likes to exude when and where he can avoid it, but he cannot help it now.

At least there aren’t any witnesses. 

The gentle notes of Cat pour from the jukebox. Mellohi sits on its edge, recently removed. Tubbo grabbed a torch from the front porch as they left—its soft flames illuminate the area directly before them and cast their shadows deep into the night. 

It is peaceful. 

He cannot picture the scenes of tomorrow, but he _can_ engrain the scenes of the present. He stores every detail in the safest pocket of his heart.

The reality of it all falls on him at once. _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow he will fight. Tomorrow _they_ will fight.   
His arm tightens around Tubbo.  
This must be what love feels like, he thinks. This visceral desperation to _protect_ and _defend_. This rooted tenderness; this inherent knowledge that he will be anything, do anything, sacrifice anything to keep Tubbo safe. For tomorrow. For the next day. For however long the war lasts. 

Forever. 

_Tubbo_. 

His best friend. His brother in all but blood. His _everything_.

He means to be back at midnight, but he no longer wants to get up. He no longer wants to do anything except live in this moment forever. Where things are pure and good and safe and _okay_. Where they are free. Where they are together. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter.

Faint footsteps approach. He thinks it’s an animal, at first, but he glances behind him to find someone holding a torch. He can’t make them out from this high up, but they start to scale the wall, and, after a minute, he makes out Wilbur’s curls. 

He turns quickly away, flushing in anticipation of the inevitable lecture. He hadn’t been screamed at from the ground, which is some consolation, he supposes, but it won’t make a difference if Wil’s just trying to get closer before he chastises him. Maybe he’s going to push them both off the wall in his usual overdramatic fashion.

Tommy winces. 

When he finally makes it onto the ledge, though, he does nothing of the sort. He inhales deeply, throws his legs over the outside edge, and settles on Tommy’s left. 

Tommy stares.

Wilbur glances briefly at him, twisting his lips to one side. “Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he whispers, crossing his arms sulkily. “I’m not a monster. I wasn’t ever going to wake him up.”

“He—it’s past midnight,” Tommy says blankly.

“I know.”

“Aren’t you angry?”

“Nah.” Wilbur leans back on his hands and tilts his head up to the stars. “I don’t want to be. We haven’t got anymore time to waste. Besides, I figured something like this had happened,” he says, nodding to Tubbo. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll be ignoring every rule you set for the rest of my life.”

Wilbur laughs softly. “You’re an idiot.”

Tommy smiles at his lap. 

The music swirls into the air. It does not lull his eyes shut like it had Tubbo’s. He does not think he will sleep at all tonight. 

“You know I trust you, don’t you?” Wilbur whispers.

Tommy blinks up at him. 

“I do,” Wil says—seeing or sensing Tommy’s gaze on the side of his head. “I trust you more than anyone in the world.”

Tommy flicks his eyes down. He swallows.

“I’m sorry if I don’t convey it,” he continues. “I mean to. Of course I mean to. You’re my right hand man, Tommy. I can’t wait to see you become president one day. You’ll be a great leader.”

“I don’t know about that,” Tommy mutters, clenching and unclenching his numb hand. The one around Tubbo stays still. 

“Oh, shut up,” Wilbur says. “You’re better suited for it than any of us.”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t speak like you. I can’t rally or lead people like you. I can’t keep my calm like you. I can’t ever do things right.”

“So, what?” Wil asks. “I’m not half as brave as you are. Every time we’ve ever sparred, you’ve beaten me. You’ve held yourself together in situations I couldn’t imagine. Your only family _left_ you, Tommy, so you built yourself a new one.”

“I didn’t build it,” Tommy says. Grief or longing or anger—is there a difference between them?—forces his eyes shut. “You found me.”

“No. I found you and Tubbo. You were alone for months without me.” 

“We kept each other safe,” Tommy says. 

“I don’t doubt that,” Wilbur allows, “but I know how strong you had to be.”

“He’s strong, too.”

“I know he is. I’ve seen it. I’m not talking about that type of strong.”

Tubbo shuffles on his shoulder. Tommy tightens his grip. 

“The strength I’m referring to isn’t defined by how we act when everything and everyone around us is good,” Wilbur whispers. “It’s defined by how we act when everything around us has crumbled, and everyone around us has broken. When there is nothing left but the thoughts of our heart and the feelings of our mind.”

Tommy does not open his eyes. He is afraid of what he will find in Wilbur’s. 

“Ours is a crumbled, broken nation, Tommy, and I will not be president forever.”

Wilbur returns his eyes to the stars. Tommy can tell—the pressure of his gaze is relieved from the side of Tommy’s head. He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

Cat plays. Tommy thinks about trying not to think, because he does not know if he is ready to think on anything beyond tomorrow. He _does_ know that he is not ready to think on anything other than the present. 

So he does not. Wilbur watches the stars, Tommy watches the grass, Tubbo sleeps on his shoulder. The air’s chill is cutting, but it’s okay. Everything is okay. They are together. 

At length, the torch fades out, and only the dimmest of glares remains. The night is black. He is exhausted, but not a hint of sleep pulls at his senses. 

He clears his throat. “Did you leave Fundy with Eret?”

“No. I’m not sure where Eret is, actually.”

“He left right before we did.”

Wilbur nods. “He’s probably back by now. But I…well—and I’m sure you’ll be quick to point out my hypocrisy, but, in my defense, you and Tubbo are always my first priority, and I had to come find you—I left Fundy alone.”

Tommy shrugs. The motion stirs Tubbo, so he waits a moment before whispering, “He’d be stupid to try anything tonight.”

“You think he’s allied with Dream, then, too?”

“Not…not for _sure_ , but—well, it’s awful suspicious to show up the night before a war.”

“Right,” Wil says. “I’m glad you think so. I didn’t know if I was overreacting.”

“You aren’t,” he says. “It’s weird.”

“I’ll try to watch him tomorrow, but I might lose track so just—keep an eye on him, would you?”

“Is he going to fight with us?”

“I don’t know,” Wilbur says, and posts his hands behind his back, returning his eyes to the stars. “I didn’t ask him.”

Tommy glances at Tubbo. His face sets. “Alright. I’ll let you know if anything’s off.”

“I think we can win, you know,” Wilbur says quietly. “I think we _will_ win.”

Tommy swallows. The mere idea of tempting or jinxing fate is terrifying; he cannot consider it. 

So, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer—he _really_ wants to get off this subject—he asks, “Can you change the disc to Mellohi?”

Wilbur looks at him. 

He isn’t fooled. Of _course_ he isn’t fooled. He never is.

“Tommy—”

“Please? I would do it, but I can’t really move.”

Wil sighs. “We should probably get back,” he says.

They probably _should_ get back. They probably _should_ have been back a long time ago. 

But what difference will it make? Both of them know they will not sleep. Both of them know lying restless in a dark room is no comfort, is no way to prepare.

Wil leans over to grab the disc, anyway.

Tommy closes his eyes. Mellohi beats steady and soft against his ears.

“Want me to take Tubbo?”

Tommy shakes his head. 

“ _He,_ at least, needs sleep, Tommy.”

“He is sleeping.”

“ _Good_ sleep. Come on. We’ll go back after this plays.”

What difference will it make? 

Every second of freedom could be their last, and, sitting on top of this wall, he’s never felt so free. 

“I don’t want to,” he says. 

What he means is: _We don’t need to_.

///

He hears shouts before he sees soldiers. It’s all the warning they need, and he’s grateful.

He doesn’t know if he can take surprises today.

Eret slips inside—sweaty and dusty and caked in mud, dragging Tommy’s beaten, tattered pickaxe—right before the fighting starts. No one questions him. Tubbo races to get his armor; Tommy races to find a spare set for Fundy. Wilbur hands them all crossbows and gives them one hundred arrows each; he hands them all swords enchanted to damage through any armor. Tommy takes the golden apples off of the roof—he and Tubbo had set them there to set yesterday evening. Tubbo packs the invisibility pots in his backpack, and heaves it onto his back.

It is chaotic. Everyone talks at once; everyone moves at once. Flaming arrows begin flying at every window, begin hitting every wall. They are getting impatient. 

“Listen. Listen!” Wilbur shouts right before they depart. He waves them together, and looks at them in turn. “No matter what happens during this war—no matter who wins and who loses—just remember that we’re on the right side of history, here. No matter what happens—no matter what goes on here—we are _not_ the villains.” 

Before they file out the door, Tubbo slams him into a hug. Tommy shuts his eyes and squeezes back. 

“Alright,” Wilbur says. “Let’s go.”

The walk outside is long and tense. Each of his and Tubbo’s attempts at conversation fizzle out. No one shoots at them, and they don’t see or hear anything. It makes everything ten times worse.

It isn’t until they find a message on a sign posted to the outside of their wall— _Meet at the Embassy_ —that they realize the others have retreated. It may be a trap, so they still move carefully, but they arrive at the Embassy without issue.

They’re just entering the house when a shout echoes from the top of the building beside them. 

“Surrender now and we won’t hurt you!”

They draw their weapons and turn to where Dream’s voice had come from. All four of them are clad in full enchanted netherite armor. Tommy winces.

“We’ve got a little bit of a, uh…weapons discrepancy,” Tommy mutters. 

Tubbo steps closer to him. Eret snorts.

“Whatever we do,” Tubbo whispers, “do _not_ go up the tower.”

Tommy rolls his eyes to mask his nerves. “Thanks, Tubbo.”

“Surrender!” Dream repeats. “Surrender, and—”

Eret fires an arrow. 

It’s the first one of the war. Tommy’s a bit surprised—Wilbur had explicitly told them to talk at them first, shoot at them after—but it doesn’t matter anymore. The arrow is shot, and before they know it, flaming arrows rain down around them. 

One hits under the ground, many meters away from any of them. 

“You’re great shots,” Tommy says sardonically. “All of these are so close to killing—”

“TNT!” Tubbo shouts, grabbing his arm and sprinting inside the embassy. “It’s under here! They just lit it! _Run!”_

Alright, so, maybe they _are_ actually good shots. 

Everything explodes. Tubbo and Tommy dive inside, tumbling and rolling and crouching behind the wall. Smoke clouds obstruct their vision. 

“Tubbo?” Tommy asks when he thinks the explosions have ended. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Tommy coughs smoke from his lungs. “Keep your head down so ash doesn’t get in your eyes,” he says. “Let’s go find the others.”

They sneak out the side and slam straight into Eret. 

“Are you okay?” Eret asks immediately, grabbing him by the shoulders.

Tommy shakes him off. “Yeah. Where’s Wilbur?”

“I don’t know, but look.” Eret points at the tower. “They retreated.”

Tommy turns to find that they have. He furrows his eyebrows. “What? Why would they—”

“They’re headed to Ponk’s tower,” Eret says. “They’re going to have the high ground. We need to go back to L’Manberg. We’ll be safer.”

“ _What?”_ Tommy demands, spinning around to scowl at him. “You want to _run_?”

“We should go to Punz’ tower,” Tubbo suggests absently. “We’ll be on the same level as them.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, nodding. “Yeah, you’re right. This is why I keep you around, Tubbo. That’s a way better idea.” 

Eret flushes a little. “I really think we need to head back to L’Manberg,” he says. 

Tommy doesn’t get the chance to tell him off, because Wilbur and Fundy stride up to them. 

“We’re fine,” Tommy says, answering the frantic question in Wilbur’s eyes before he can ask it. “They’re headed to Ponk’s tower. If we go to Punz’, they’ll lose their high ground. We can shoot them out of the sky.”

Wilbur twists his lips to one side and squints into the distance. He turns back to them, nodding. “We push here, then.”

“It might be a trap,” Tubbo says. “We need to be careful.”

“Wilbur,” Eret tries. “We should go back to L’Manberg. It’ll be safer.”

Tommy glares. “For the last time, Eret— _no_.”

Wilbur nods his approval. “We aren’t going to run.”

“I _told_ you he’d agree,” Tommy mutters.

“I actually don’t think you did,” Tubbo says. 

“This is why I hate keeping you around,” Tommy says. 

“Enough,” Wilbur says. “Here’s the plan. We take the invis pots now, and we sneak up to Ponk’s tower. It’s the best position we’ll be able to get. Hand them out, Tubbo.”

“Got it,” Tubbo says, and turns to dig through his backpack.

“Tommy, what happened to your hand?” Fundy asks, eyebrows pinching.

Tommy glances down. He frowns. “Dunno,” he says. Scarlet blood soaks his palm and shoves unwanted fears to the forefront of his mind; he forces them away. He forces all of it away, actually, by infusing levity into his voice. “Must’ve punched someone too hard.”

“We didn’t get within a hundred meters of anyone.”

“I’m just that powerful,” Tommy says.

“I’m not even going to try to understand you,” Fundy says. 

“Even if you did try, you couldn’t, because I’ve ascended,” Tommy says. “I live in a higher plane of understanding.”

“What the hell are you even _talking_ about—”

The backpack slams onto the floor. 

No bottles shatter, which is curious, but the noise is still enough to make them all jump. The false mirth drains from the room, leaving heavy silence in its wake.

“They’re broken,” Tubbo manages. His voice trembles. “They’re all broken.”

“What do you mean, broken?” Wilbur asks slowly.

“I don’t—I didn’t break them, I just—they must have broken when we—”

“The explosions,” Tommy guesses. 

Tubbo nods.

Wilbur curses and tears his hands through his hair. Fundy bows his head. Eret turns away.

Seeing this, Tubbo looks at Tommy, eyes wide and frantic. “I might have a glass bottle. We’d just have to find a fermented spider eye, and we can make another—”

“Tubbo—” 

“—potion. I really don’t think it will be that hard. It won’t take long, either. We can just—”

“ _Tubbo._ ”

Tubbo winces.

“It’s not the end of the world, Tubbo,” Tommy says. 

“I—it won’t take that long to make a new one,” Tubbo whispers. “I think I can do it.”

“How long will it take?” Wilbur asks.

Tubbo bites his lip. 

Tommy sees the answer clearly enough—not long, but longer than they have to spare. 

Tommy turns to Wil, expression set.

“We don’t need to,” he says. 

What he means is: _It’s okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you want, let me know what you think! Comments / feedback mean(s) the world. <3


	4. disillusion

He should have known. 

He _should have known_ , and it’s all that he can process. 

Guilt—piercing, crippling guilt—streaks rampant through his veins. He is powerless against it. There is blood everywhere, and they are all limping in their sprints—they must sprint, or they will surely die—and his broken ankle or cut open hand or gashed forehead should be what slow him down, but he is only hindered by the guilt. 

He should have known. 

He _could_ have known, but he did not see, for he was not looking. 

He should have been looking. 

He was looking at Fundy. He was watching Fundy. 

He never thought to watch anyone else. 

Anger—vicious, violent anger—streaks rampant through his veins. He is wild with it. There is blood everywhere—on his skin, in the air, in his mouth, in his mind; on his arms, on Tubbo’s legs, on Wilbur’s face, on Fundy’s back—and all he can think is _he should have known._

He should have known. 

The signs were all there. Eret was desperate to borrow his pickaxe. Eret was desperate to return to L’Manberg.

Eret was desperate.

Eret was desperate, and he should have realized. Because now there is blood everywhere.

Everywhere except for on Eret.

But that isn’t true, is it? Because there is no blood on Eret, but there is blood on Eret’s hands. 

And Tommy should have known.

They manage to escape the bunker through the hole that Dream and the others—who else was with him? He can hardly remember; it doesn’t matter—entered through. They run and sprint and pray to Ender that they are not followed, pray to Ender that the sword wounds and potion effects are not fatal, pray to Ender that they will survive long enough to hear each other’s voices one more time.

They do not speak. He always has something to say—something to lighten the mood, something to ease the burden of silence—but he has nothing now.

When they make it out of the clearing and into the tree-line, he slips an arm under Tubbo’s shoulders. They cannot afford to slow down, but Tubbo’s face is pale and tight and he is _trying_ , Tommy knows, but he also cannot take another step. 

He must. 

Tommy takes the backpack from his shoulders, carries it, carries himself, and carries half of Tubbo’s weight. 

TNT explodes behind them. Not close behind them—far. In their country. In their home. 

They can just barely make out the echoes. They all flinch, but they do not slow down. 

They run and run and run until Tubbo cries out in pain. 

Tommy blanches.  “Wil,” he says, breathing so heavily that only the absolute silence allows his voice to be heard. “We have to stop.”

Wilbur does, immediately. He turns to face them, eyebrows pinched, expression somber. “We’re almost there,” he says. 

“Where are—where are we even going?” Tommy asks.

Wilbur bites his lip and looks away. 

Tommy readjusts his grip on Tubbo, shifting so that he raises him up—hopefully alleviating pressure on his leg. As he does, though, he glances around. 

They have been in the forest for a long time. 

The beginnings of a clearing can just be made out. 

Tommy’s eyes widen. “We’ve circled back ‘round,” he whispers. 

Wilbur’s face hardens. “We had no other choice,” he says. “I have to talk to Dream.”

Tommy gapes. “And say _what?”_

“We’ve lost our homes. There’s already been so much bloodshed. I feel I’d be a bad general if I didn’t look for conditions of surrender.”

“He’s right,” Fundy says, nodding from Wilbur’s side. “We’ll lose everything if we don’t try.”

“But— _what?_ Surrender? We’ve already lost everything! There’s nothing left to lose!”

“We’ve lost our things,” Wilbur says. “We have not lost our chance at freedom.”

Tommy stares.

Everything they had—even L’Manberg itself—has been destroyed. 

_Destroyed_. 

They have nothing.

But Tommy looks in Wilbur’s eyes and sees what he has seen every day for the past months. It has dimmed, now—with time, understanding, experience, circumstance—but it is still there. 

_Hope_. 

That is all they have. Traces of it reside in Wil’s eyes, and until those have vanished, they haven’t really lost anything, have they?

After all, hope is all they had at the start. Hope is all they had to work with. Hope is all they had to build upon.

Hope sparks in Tommy’s chest. It relieves the all-encompassing fear, the omnipotent anger, the suffocating guilt. 

_Hope_.

Tubbo’s head flops on his shoulder, and Tommy whips his head around to face him. To Tommy's relief, he isn’t unconscious, but he isn’t far off, either, and that makes Tommy's decision for him. 

“Okay,” he says, looking at Tubbo but talking to Wilbur. “Okay. You’re right. But we stop to heal up first.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “There isn’t time.”

“Wil, _look_ at him. We need to—”

“I’ll stay with him,” Fundy cuts in. He swipes a hand along his back, and holds it up for them to see. It is drenched in blood. “I don’t think I’ll make it all the way, either.”

“Perfect,” Wilbur says. “Tommy. I want you with me.”

Tommy drags his hand down his face. “I can’t leave Tubbo,” he says. 

“I’m familiar with medicine,” Fundy says. “I’ll take care of him.”

“You can barely walk yourself!”

“Tommy,” Wilbur says. “I need you by my side.”

Tommy turns to Wilbur, face open and raw and trusting, eyes wide and full of all the fears he will never, ever voice. “I can’t leave him, Wil.”

Wilbur sets a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing will happen to him, Tommy. I promise.”

Fundy slips up to Tubbo’s other side and starts transferring his weight. Tubbo groans in pain.

“You can’t do that,” Tommy says, but Fundy has already taken him. He sets Tubbo down onto a bed of moss. 

Wilbur uses his grip on Tommy’s shoulder to turn him away from the two. “Come on, Tommy. He knows what he’s doing.”

Wilbur pulls him away. 

Tommy starts to look back, but, swallowing, decides against it. With a prayer to Ender in his heart, he follows. 

The trip is short. The trip is silent. 

Only when the broken remains of L’Manberg emerge from the tree-line does Wilbur turn to Tommy. 

“Listen,” he says. “There’s one condition.”

Tommy bows his head. 

“What happened last time you came with me was unacceptable. Make sure you don’t run your mouth this time. No challenging Dream on his honor—none of that. Do you understand?”

He nods. He understands. Of course he understands.

He just does not listen.

He sees Dream—standing, polished, healthy—and all he can see is Tubbo. His shallow breaths, his crumpled face, his paling skin contrasted so starkly with the scarlet blood. He sees Dream, and all he can see is Fundy and Wil and himself, crouching down a corridor, discovering that the secret weapon awaiting them was betrayal. 

His vision is scarlet—with blood, with anger. 

He holds his tongue until Dream says they fought well. 

He explodes. 

“Tommy!” Wilbur says, holding his shoulder, pulling him back. “Tommy, _stop_.”

Wilbur is strong, but Tommy is furious. 

Sometimes, fury wins. 

He pushes through the Wil’s barrier to shove his finger in Dream’s face. Dream doesn’t even blink. 

“Tommy!” Wilbur shouts. “Tommy, your passion will get you nowhere!”

Dream smirks.

Wilbur is wrong. His passion does get him somewhere. 

It gets him to a bridge of wooden planks, surrounded on either side by water. It gets him ten paces away from the man he hates most in the world. 

It gets him a bow, and it gets him a single arrow. 

Hope is gone from Wilbur’s eyes. All that remains is disapproval—and, under the surface, fear. He conceals it well, but Tommy has spent the last eight years learning how to read him. His studies do not fail him now. 

Part of him wishes they did. Part of him wishes that he was ignorant, that he could not see the raw terror in Wilbur’s face. Because, as others ready the area for the duel, the sentiments siphon into his heart. 

He is terrified. 

He realizes it, now. This terror is not new. This terror is not recently attained—only recently uncovered. It’s been buried in his heart ever since Wilbur turned to him, smiling, and said that beautiful, dreadful word _Freedom_. 

He is terrified of war. He is even more terrified of what war _does_ to people. He is terrified of everyone around him now—except for Wilbur and Tubbo—because his friend, who is not his friend anymore, has no blood on his body except for his hands. He is terrified because he already lost Technoblade, all those years ago, and he does not think he will survive another loss like that. He is terrified because he is sixteen, and he is a soldier, and sixteen year olds are supposed to date and dance and laugh and party, not duel for their nation’s independence, not ask their older brother whether they should aim to kill or aim for the skies, and be told to decide for himself. He is terrified because he does not _want_ to aim to kill; he is even more terrified that he is almost certain that he must. He is terrified because this is Dream, and because he should have listened to Wilbur in the first place. He is terrified because he is so, so _stupid_ —he is terrified because he has no control over his anger, and it’s led him to a situation he could have prevented. 

But, more than anything, he is terrified that he will lose. 

Not because he is fearful of his death, or because he wants to maintain some semblance of pride. 

He is terrified because the diamonds of freedom are in his grasp, and he does not trust them in someone else’s hands.

He is terrified.

But when Wilbur strides up and pulls him in a hug mere moments before the count begins, he closes his eyes. 

“You’ve really got yourself in a mess, haven’t you?” Wil says, voice shaking with the things he will not say, with the things that neither of them have ever been able to express— _sorrow_ and _doubt_ and _fear_ and _love_.

Tommy buries his face in Wil’s shoulder, and concentrates all his energy on making sure his voice is steady. 

Everything has crumbled. Everyone has broken. There is nothing left but the thoughts of his heart, and the feelings of his mind 

That is what defines him now. This is his moment. It is his turn to be strong.

“It’s okay,” he says. 

What he means is: _I know it isn’t._

_///_

There is pride in Wilbur’s eyes, and there is pride in his own. It’s a different kind of pride than he’s ever felt before—pride in a cause, not in himself. He is not _proud_ , but he is proud, and it makes all the difference.

“I know how much those discs mean to you, and I—I just want you to know that your value won’t change in my eyes if you don’t do this. Nothing—no one is making you do this. It isn’t something you have to do, Tommy.”

He looks at Wilbur. He remembers the way he’d smiled—all those weeks ago—when he’d first brought up the idea of independence. He remembers how fresh the word had tasted on his tongue, then— _revolution_. How clean and crisp and beautiful. 

Back when war belonged in tall tales or horror stories. Back when people who called themselves “friends” were just that. Back when trust was given easily and accepted easier; back when tired eyes got to rest, not wait up watching for an ambush. 

Wilbur is exhausted. 

Tommy can see it in his face: the rugged bags beneath his eyes, the crinkled lines on his forehead. He has poured everything into this fight, into this endeavor. 

Everything has changed, and yet this, _this_ …this will always be the same. 

He is just a child, standing before a man that has helped him time and time again. He is just a boy, standing before a friend that has saved him time and time again. 

He is just a soldier, standing before a general that has led him time and time again. 

He is just a human, standing before the most important person in his life. 

It is innate, then—the feeling that beams through his heart, pouring steadily through every vein and artery and cell and capillary—he does not want to disappoint him. 

He thinks he grasps Wilbur’s meaning, from before. 

_There is_ nothing _stopping us. There is_ no one _stopping us. We’re exactly like this coal right here._

_All we need is a_ chance _._

There is nothing stopping him. There is no one stopping him. He was wrong—the duel was not his moment. The duel derived from rage and was fueled by hatred, by a thirst for vengeance. 

This moment derives from love and is fueled by desperation, by a thirst for freedom. 

_This_ is his moment. This is his chance. 

He is coal, and he can turn them all to diamond. He will lose something, but he will gain everything.

Fires and rains. Friends and foes. 

Discs and diamonds. 

Dream stands behind Wilbur, eyebrows raised in doubt, lips twisted in derision. 

Tommy rolls his shoulders back. He lifts his chin. 

He pulls the discs out of his pocket.

“I know it isn’t,” he says. 

What he means is: _I understand._


End file.
